Pirate

Sam noticed a few admiring glances turned their way, undoubtedly directed at Remi, who wore a sleeveless black silk gown and a diamond pendant at the neckline that drew the eye to the hint of cleavage. Some designer. Chanel? Armani? The moment she rattled the name off, he put it from his mind, not that it mattered. What did was that his wife looked amazing.

Remi nodded at the footmen. “They’re announcing names at the door.”

“That presents a slight problem. At least if we want to stay low-key.”

“So what’s the plan?”

“I’m working on it.” The truth was, he hadn’t yet come up with anything. Within seconds, they’d be at the door, only two more couples ahead of them.

He glanced around him, hoping something would come up, as he heard the footman announce, “Sir John Kimball, Lady Kimball.”

“Sam,” Remi whispered, a smile pasted on her face. “We’re almost up.”

“Isn’t that Charles Avery’s Rolls-Royce?” he asked. “Or, rather, his hired henchman Fisk?”

She looked back. “It would seem so.”

“What are the chances he or his driver has a gun in the car?”

“About a hundred percent.”

Sam leaned toward her, whispering, “And what would happen if a beautiful, frightened woman were to make that fact known?”

“You know any?”

“Beautiful? Yes. Frightened? Never.”

“One way to find out…”

As they reached the doors, the so-called footman asked for their invitation. Remi placed her hand on her throat, her beautiful green eyes turning all doe-like, as she said, “Thank heavens.” She moved in closer, lowering her voice. “I’ve never been more frightened in my life. There’s a man with a gun.”

The footman, his shoulders tensing, scanned the crowd behind her. “Where?”

“Standing near that Rolls-Royce. He’s tall, dark hair, graying at the temples. You see the way he keeps looking at us? It’s like he knows.”

“Wait right here, please.”

He left them to go talk to a couple of men in dark business suits standing about ten feet to their right, undoubtedly part of the security detail.

Sam used that moment to take Remi’s arm and lead her in. They were stopped by another footman, who asked for their invitation. “I gave it to that other gentleman,” Sam said, pointing to one of the three men who were now walking toward Fisk and the Rolls.

The guard eyed them, slightly confused. “What names to announce?”

Remi stepped forward. “Longstreet,” she said, giving her maiden name.

Sam added, “Mr. and Mrs.”

“Mr. and Mrs. Longstreet,” he intoned, and he waved them through.

Sam moved Remi quickly from the door, planning to get lost in the crowd before anyone realized what had happened. Especially if Fisk connected the contact by security to them. “That worked out well,” he said once they were safely inside and there didn’t seem to be anyone coming after them.

A liveried waiter passed by carrying champagne flutes and Sam took two, handing one to Remi. “Here’s to beautiful women who are good actresses.”

“And handsome men who can think on their feet.” She touched her glass to his and sipped as they strolled through the atrium, neither of them wanting to waste any time mingling.

Sam glanced back as they exited toward the gallery with the display.

Remi asked, “Something wrong?”

“We probably stirred a hornet’s nest by siccing those guards on Avery’s man.”

“If we’re lucky, we can get in and out before we get stung.”

“Let’s hope so,” he said as they neared the gathering of guests just outside the new exhibit. He took in their surroundings, searching for anyone who looked the least bit suspicious. He noticed a few undercover security guards, something to be expected. He dismissed them as a threat, instead looking for anyone who might be working for Avery or Fisk.

So far, so good.

A woman at the entrance of the gallery handed them a colored, tri-fold pamphlet.

Remi looked over hers. Sam took the moment to examine the guests milling about inside the long room. No one seemed to be paying them the least bit of attention.

“Fascinating,” Remi said.

“What is?”

She pointed to the pamphlet. “Considering what this display is focusing on, you’d think they would’ve come up with a different name for the event. It’s formally called the Illegitimate Royal Children of England.”

“Somehow I don’t think that would have the same cachet as A Royal Night at the Museum.” He looked around the room and noted a large number of older patrons. “Some of these people might have a hard time writing the official version in their checkbooks.”

Remi laughed. “Good point, Fargo. Shall we see what all the fuss is about?”

He took her arm, and they strolled through the exhibit, set out chronologically by year and by the family associated with it.

About midway through, they reached the display that contained the items donated by Grace Herbert-Miller and her cousin and they stopped, took their time giving everything a thorough examination. There were paintings, a suit of armor, weaponry, and jewelry, just to name a few of the many items. If the cipher wheel was there, it wasn’t in plain view.